Itchenor

You go onto the platform that overlooks the small rectangle of beach and sit on the bench; there are several there, and each one is dedicated to dead soldiers.

            Boats and skiffs slip across the surface of the water effortlessly, making no sound as they come and go from the harbour. But there is the regular interruption of the hum of engines. The harbour master drives his small car onto the pebbles. They crunch under its weight. There is no peace here. What did you expect?

            Some come here to watch the boats, some come for silence, some come just to watch the water; it seems most come here to connect with some memory, some indiscernible power, but instead find nothing. There are no dead spirits here – there is just a view, a breeze, and the finding out that you cannot stay in this accursed place for very long.

            Your feet hurt after miles of walking over indeterminate ground – the country is only looked over fondly if you know it. You wouldn’t think such a beautiful place could be at once so barren. You laugh.

            The air has been hazy all day, although it doesn’t seem thick, and it hangs above the water. One couldn’t imagine being on a platform in the summer – they lend themselves to solace, quiet contemplation, the desolation of winter. It would be a shame for any place to be forgotten, but such a place deserves to be let alone. Then again, you are only one amongst many, so how can you talk?

            You must go home now. Luck is earned, fortune is endowed. Some must struggle for the silver spoon, some eat of it – and some forge it, sore and burdened with that heavy weight. You put your stuff away, give heel to your wounded bicycle, and walk your sorry arses home.